


Hummingbirds the Size of Bullets

by blueabsinthe



Series: Hide the Night [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Come Shot, Dirty Talk, M/M, New York Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueabsinthe/pseuds/blueabsinthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missed practice session, and a surprise visit lead to something neither Hank or Brad were expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hummingbirds the Size of Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** dirty talk
> 
> Title for fic comes from the Kill Hannah song of the same name.

He had known from the moment he stepped into the Garden for practice that Torts would not make this an easy one. Hank kept his head down, and said nothing as he donned his gear. His equipment was checked, and then re-checked by the equipment staff, before he was allowed to head to the ice. 

It wasn't until he was on the ice and taking his spot in net that he noticed the absence of his familiar jersey number. 

"Come on!" Tortorella yelled, whistle between his lips. "Get the lead out!"

Hank watched as Tortorella went over to talk to Richards' line-mates. He caught brief snippets of the conversation as they floated towards him.

"He'll play tomorrow. Said he was feeling sore. Neck pain."

Dubinsky shrugged, punched Prust playfully in the shoulder before they skated off, laughing as they went. 

Hank saw out of the corner of his eye, Brad sitting on the bench, eyeing the rest of the team as they practiced their drills, and scrimmaged. Brad looked over in his direction briefly, nodded his head in acknowledgement, before he went back to focusing on observing the practice.

He knew he had been expecting it, but it did not make the pain dissipate. Hank stripped out of his gear, and grimaced slightly as he pulled on a clean shirt. The pain that shot through his shoulder a reminder he could not afford to fall apart now. He had to get through the game against Boston tomorrow, then he would have three days to recuperate, and nurse his new, and old injuries. 

When he gets to the parking garage, he notices Brad's car is no longer there. He changes his mind on heading home right away as he throws his car into reverse and backs up out of the stall. 

It isn't until he's standing on Brad's apartment doorstep does he realize this may be an absolutely asinine decision. 

But, as he hears locks click, and the door being opened slowly, any residual doubt he had for coming here disappears. Brad's hair is slightly dishevelled. His sweatpants are low on his hips. The threadbare high-school alumni sweatshirt he is wearing makes him look younger.

"You all right?" Hank asks as Brad lets him step inside his apartment.

"Yeah. Sore neck. That's all. I'll be good to go tomorrow."

Hank eyes him, his hair loose and uncontrolled by gel. His cheeks flushed. "I … I - I'm sorry I left early."

Brad shrugs, eyes slightly bemused, as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats. "It was expected."

"But it wasn't necessary."

"We both got what we wanted, Hank."

Hank opens and closes his mouth, going over what he could possibly say, but he comes up short. He watches as Brad nibbles thoughtfully on his bottom lip. Watches as he lifts his head to stare at Hank, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, and something inside Hank snaps then. 

He steps forward, slings an arm around Brad's waist, curls his fingers in Brad's hair, and covers his mouth in a bruising kiss. Brad had not shaved that day, his stubble rasping against Hank's chin, his moans being swallowed by Hank's hot and insistent mouth. 

Hank slips his tongue into Brad's mouth, tasting him, getting lost in all the heat, and sweetness oozing from Brad's every pore. Brad shivers, breath raspy, small gasps leak from between his lips, as Hank slides his lips down to his jaw. 

Brad's back comes up against the wall shortly after, Hank slides his thigh between Brad's legs, pinning him against the wall. He manages to get his slightly calloused hands up and under Brad's sweatshirt. He drags the fleece up and over Brad's head, raking his blunt nails over the exposed bronzed skin. Brad moans as Hank's thumbs torment his nipples, and he squirms, his hips bumping involuntarily against Hank.

Hank's teeth graze Brad's neck, biting and lick over his jugular, as his hands slide down to cup his ass. He feels as Brad's hands manage to slide his jacket down his arms, his fingers digging crescent shaped marks in his upper arm. A slight pull, and Hank has their hips pressed together, grinding insistently, as he sees Brad's head fall back against the wall, a small sob of pleasure escaping his lips.

Somehow, Hank manages to get his hand down the front of Brad's sweats, and begins to stroke him with a loose ring of thumb and forefinger. His other hand comes up to Brad's cheek, where he strokes it languidly, before he slips his index finger into Brad's warm, wet mouth. 

Hank sighs, and leans in slightly, letting his lips brush over the shell of Brad's ear. "You feel so good in my hand."

Brad lets out a strangled cry around Hank's finger. "Oh _fuck_ ," he groans.

Hank paused in his strokes briefly, his finger coming up to press against the head, feeling as the pre-come oozed between his fingers. He explored head and vein with his fingers, spreading the heat down Brad's length as he did so.

"Feels good, hm?" 

A nip at his collarbone, another long, languid slide of his hand along Brad's cock, and Brad starts whimpering, and becomes boneless in Hank's arms. 

Brad gripped at Hank's hip, as he arched his hips, desperately trying to create more friction between his dick and Hank's fist. He let out a little noise, sounding half like Hank's name and don't stop, as he gripped Hank's shoulder. 

Hank nipped at Brad's ear, as he whispered, "Do you want me to make you come?"

Brad whimpered, his mouth half-open, his eyes screwed tightly shut. "Please … oh, please. God, make me come. I don't think I'll be able to stand it if I you don't."

Brad's eyelids fluttered as Hank twisted his wrist in such a way that it wrung a gasp from his lips. "Has Vince ever made you come like this? Up against a wall, just his hand down your pants?"

"Fuck!" Brad gasps, fingers digging painfully into Hank's arm. He can't really do much else, expect hang onto Hank, as he starts to lose the battle. Faster. Harder. More. _Now._

"Jesus shit, Hank," Brad chokes out, eyes blinking up at his ceiling. "Yeah - mm-hm - just like that. Oh, shit. _Just like that. Please …_ oh, god. _Please!_ "

"I love the way you sound when I have you like this," Hank purrs, licking his tongue over the shell of Brad's ear. 

"Hank … shit … for fuck's sake, just …"

Hank curls his free hand into Brad's hair and covers his mouth with his, mouth bruising, and insistent. It robs Brad of all oxygen, and sanity as Hank's tongue plunders his mouth. Tongue fucking his mouth, mimicking what his dick had done to him last night. 

It was too much, Brad realized. The words, the warmth of Hank's skin, his tongue, the low hum of the New York streets. It makes Brad forget to hang on a bit longer …

_Oh, fuck -_

"Hank, fuck!" Brad's voice was high-pitched as he came for Hank, spilling his heat all over Hank's hand and his own thankfully bare torso. 

Hank muttered words of endearment in Swedish against his ear, as his hand milked every last drop of come from him. Brad's legs were shaking as Hank slid down his form to lick up the stray drops drying on his abdomen. 

Brad gathers enough strength to tug Hank up to him. He crushes their mouths together, tasting himself on Hank's tongue, as he maneuvers them, so Hank is now pressed against the wall. 

He sinks to his knees in front of Hank, and takes his cock deep into his throat without so much as a word. He runs his tongue along the shaft, flicks it over the underside of Hank's dick, and smirks around Hank's length as Hank gasps out his name, and curls his fingers in his hair. 

Hank doesn't say much, doesn't try to fuck Brad's mouth with his dick, but Brad can feel as he loses control. He can taste it in the salt and slightly musky heat of his come as he sucks him dry. Brad swallows around him, eyes never looking away from Hank's face, until Hank mutters for him to stop. 

Hank slides to the floor, in front of Brad, bright eyes blinking rapidly, before he presses their foreheads together. 

Eventually, they lie on Brad's bed, a tangle of limbs, and sweaty skin as the last vestiges of light stream in through the gauzy curtains. 

"Sean isn't going to like this," Brad says conversationally.

"We're not -" Hank starts, running a hand through Brad's hair, marvelling at the silken texture of it. "It's not … it's not like that between us," Hank finally says.

Brad laughs lightly. "S'funny. I always thought you two were -"

Hank shakes his head, rubs his face tiredly. 

"What is this, then?" Brad finally asks.

Hank shrugs. "Not sure."

Brad sighs, and stretches languidly. "I think we're fucking."

"Not currently, we're not," Hank points out.

Brad smacks his shoulder. "You know what I mean."

Hank is silent for a long moment, his fingers still playing with the strands of hair at the base of Brad's neck. "I can't be _him_ for you."

Brad's heart skips a beat, before he feels it sink lower into his chest cavity. He turns his head slightly, looks up at Hank through his heavily-fringed eyelashes. Brad opens his mouth slightly to protest, but it dies on his lips as Hank presses a finger to them.

"You don't have to say anything," Hank says, eyes warm, and knowing. 

Brad leans up then, his palm flat against Hank's chest, as he kisses him, eyes screwed shut to block out thoughts of Vinny, and of Hank, and of how incredibly _screwed_ he actually was.


End file.
